


A Midnight Caper

by EmpressArieda



Category: Carmen Sandiego (Cartoon 2019)
Genre: Age Difference, Aged-Up Character(s), Canon Compliant, F/M, I don't know why I wrote this, I was just down for some enemies to lovers action u know, Masquerade Ball, Paris (City), chase high-key hates himself, probably a terrible idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-11 23:50:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19120234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmpressArieda/pseuds/EmpressArieda
Summary: After being demoted as an agent of Interpol, Inspector Devineaux is assigned to keep an eye out for the notorious Carmen Sandiego at a high-profile masquerade ball in Paris. His plans to get drunk at the bar and reflect on his pathetic life are pleasantly interrupted by a strangely familiar party guest.In which Chase Devineaux, reduced to a glorified security guard after his entangle with VILE, drowns his crippling self-loathing in alcohol and falls for an international criminal.





	A Midnight Caper

Inspector Chase Devineaux was a serious, high-ranking official of the International Criminal Police Organization - a man of stature, prestige, skill. A man of worldly studies, with a set of skills that could put 007 to shame.

A man who was currently stuck in a stuffy tuxedo and cheap mask in an ornate Parisian ballroom, nursing a generous amount of alcohol. God how he hated this job.

After returning from his embarrassing stint as a kidnapping victim, the chief had taken one (or perhaps several) angry looks in Chase's direction and put him on probation. Not so much as a "Hi" or "I hope you're feeling better after being beaten and tied up by strange angry criminals". And now, Chase was stuck 'monitoring' high-profile events in the city, watching for sightings of crime. As if Sandiego would target some fancy socialite party - she was probably somewhere out there plotting to steal the Mona Lisa while Interpol reduced it's best agents to party police.

Throughout all this, though, Chase only felt terrible for Julia. Detective Argent was bright and resourceful, still green enough to have some faith in the system. Perhaps with her talents, she would be running ACME one day...if Chase's reputation hadn't already single-handedly ruined her career. Maybe them being apart was for her own good, even if it was a personal low for Chase to be demoted to a glorified security guard at the age of 30.

Even worse was the anxiety that accompanied these high society parties. A glistening venue in the City of Light. Socialites and political officials milling about, all in tailored designer suits and dresses, mingling and talking within their fancy inner circles. It all felt perfect - too perfect. Chase took a deep breath as the harsh yellow lights of the chandeliers blurred in front of him, and he tugged at his bow-tie. Suddenly, his suit felt extremely tight and the mask was suffocating. He eyed the entrance, where the doormen helped guests check in their exorbitant coats and direct them into the event. The cool night air called to him, and Chase wanted nothing more than to down his glass of whiskey, tear off the mask, and walk (maybe run) out of the ballroom.

"Are you alright, Monsieur?" Chase looked up to see the bartender giving him a slightly distasteful look as he slowly reached over the bar counter to take back Chase's empty glass. Though his words were of concern, it was clear that the bartender wanted Chase to leave.

Chase cleared his throat and stood up, giving him a tight smile. "I would just appreciate some fresh air."

The bartender nodded, pointing upstairs. "There's a balcony open to guests. Perhaps you can-" he looked Chase up and down, "work on feeling better."

"Merci," Chase replied, trying to keep his tone polite. "I will be on my way."

The bartender muttered under his breath as Chase walked away, probably something about pathetic drunk guests ruining his night.

Security officers donning comically large sunglasses paced near the staircase, probably instructed by the event coordinators to keep watch for the infamous thief in red. Chase scoffed. If any 2-bit wage monkey was able to outsmart Carmen Sandiego, he'd hand over his badge and pension plan right now.

As he approached the stairs, one of the guards eyed Chase, his eyebrow cocked, as if even he didn't believe someone so pathetically dressed in a slightly oversized suit belonged at this party.

Chase groaned and flipped open his badge at the guard, who seemed to quickly realize his place. The guard nodded quickly. "I apologize, Inspector."

"Go on and say it louder so Carmen Sandiego can hear you, why don't you?" Chase hissed, brushing past him and heading up the stairs.

The guard bristled at his harsh tone, turning away and bowing his head slightly. _Wonderful. Now you've made an imbecile of yourself and probably ruined a young man's dreams of becoming an officer. You've truly become the asshole police officer you swore you'd never become - like father, like son, eh?_ Chase groaned, hurrying up the stairs while trying to silence the acerbic inner monologue. Apparently, all the alcohol in the world couldn't smother his crippling self-loathing.

The moment he opened the doors to the balcony, Chase gasped, relishing the feeling of fresh air filling his lungs. He let out a long sigh, grasping onto the edge of the balcony and ripping off the stifling mask. Closing his eyes, Chase tried to will the world to stop spinning, will his mind to stop thinking, will his heart to stop pounding so hard that his ears were ringing. It had been months since he'd felt an attack come on so strongly, but the therapist had warned him about entering potentially triggering situations (like elitist parties where the bourgeoisie had nothing better to do than air out their dirty laundry and scoff at commoners). It was a pity Chief Dubois didn't believe in childhood trauma from fancy parties.

"Bad shrimp?"

Chase looked up, jolted out of his spiraling thoughts. The source of the quip was to his left, a woman in a long blue evening gown holding a glass of champagne. She wore a mask that covered most of her upper face, with the darkness of the balcony cloaking the rest of it. All Chase could really make out was her bright red lipstick. He felt his cheeks grow warm, despite himself.

"I-ah- apologize for disturbing you, Madame." Had she been here the whole time, silently watching his mental breakdown?

"Oh, no," she waved her arm, "please - don't apologize. I just saw that you looked a bit frazzled."

Frazzled - what a thoroughly foreign word. He noticed her accent; it definitely wasn't French, or even British, but he couldn't quite place it. American or Canadian, with a slight twist, maybe.

At his silence, she pressed on, although there was a bit of hesitation in her voice. "Are you alright? I can leave if you'd like a moment alone."

"No, please," Chase said, trying to salvage a gentlemanly composure. "I'm the one who should leave." He sighed, looking back at the door leading inside. "I just...despise parties."

"Oh," she said.

Chase felt himself blush again. He hadn't meant to be so candid, and now she probably thought he was some kind of loser who couldn't socialize to save his life. He really should leave before he embarrassed himself further and solidified his status as a miserably inadequate excuse for an adult man.

"Me too."

"What?"

She laughed, leaning back onto the balcony. "I'm not really a fan of fancy parties either. Don't really think I belong."

Chase shook his head, partly in disbelief. She had to be lying, with her done-up hair tucked into a meticulously large bun and her extravagant gown, probably from a designer boutique somewhere in Paris. If Chase were to form a lineup of women meant to be at this party, she would be suspect number one. "Forgive me for my doubt in that statement."

The woman smiled again, perhaps despite herself, because she quickly turned away from Chase before she replied. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Chase watched as she tapped her gloved fingers on the champagne glass. "What brings you to this party, if you don't mind me asking?"

She paused a moment before answering. "Work."

"Really?"

She shrugged. "Just some business clients and things. Nothing too serious. Just something my, um, boss wanted me to attend."

Chase nodded slowly, studying her. The moonlight reappeared above the overcast summer sky, illuminating their faces. The woman was definitely younger than he'd realized, which only made the encounter more awkward. But there was something about her that tread the line between mystery and familiarity. Like she was a puzzle he'd encountered before, but couldn't quite remember how to solve.

Or perhaps he was overthinking it.

"Are you not from France, then?"

"No. My accent probably gave it away, huh?"

"A little," Chase admitted. "But I can't place it."

Her smile turned into a smirk - playful, but with an undertone of triumph. "Well. Maybe that's one thing to remain a mystery."

She wouldn't tell him where she was from. And there it was again, that feeling. Part of him wanted to press her, try and figure her out, and yet another part told him to hold back. He chose a compromise. "Speaking of mysteries, you never told me your name."

"You never told me yours."

"Chase. Chase Devineaux." He held his hand out, and she took it.

"Cara. Nice to meet you, Chase."

Cara. It didn't suit her.

"The pleasure's mine," Cara said, dropping the handshake, "So what brings _you_ here, Monsieur I-despise-parties?"

Chase chuckled. "Social calls, unfortunately. My family is acquainted with many of the guests, and I have the unenviable obligation of showing up every now and then to let everyone know I'm still alive."

It was an utter lie. Even if the guests at this party happened to be part of his parent's circle of elite assholes, there was no way they'd want to see Chase there. Chase almost smiled, thinking of his dad's face - shocked, angry, ashamed - if he did suddenly show up at one of their pretentious private parties.

"So," Cara asked, stepping closer to him, "You come to these events by yourself?"

Chase narrowed his eyes. Was she suspicious? Maybe she knew more about his identity than she was letting on. "Yes," he answered carefully. "Why do you ask?"

She shook her head, the playful smirk back. "It just would've been a shame if someone were to be waiting on you. I'm...enjoying this conversation."

Oh? _Oh._ Chase turned away quickly, hoping the moon wasn't bright enough to show his face, which had inexplicably gotten increasingly warmer.

He coughed, trying to recover any dignity he had left. "And, ah, you, Madame? Are you in Paris alone?"

She sighed. "Sadly. My life doesn't leave much room for anything else. Although there was someone." As soon as the words came out, Chase could tell she regretted bringing up the topic. She bit her lip slightly and took a long drink. There was definitely a story there. "Anyway. I'll be exploring the City of Love solo."

"There is no shame in that. It's still a marvelous city, alone or with someone," Chase said.

At this, Cara smiled, looking back out at the view. The venue was a small hotel ballroom directly in the heart of Paris, with a view that encompassed all the glory of the city. Even as a resident who had lived here most of his life, Chase could appreciate it's spellbinding mystique.

"That's true," Cara said, "I love Paris. The history, the culture of it all. I've been here before, but never got a chance to truly experience it."

"Why's that?"

"Just...busy," She stopped, looking like she wanted to say something else.

"And?" Chase pressed.

Despite her hesitation, she answered. "The someone I mentioned. We promised each other that we'd see the world together, and he always wanted to see Paris. But it didn't work out. Our views on life changed, and we drifted apart."

"I understand," Chase replied quickly, "The last person-" he took a deep breath before continuing, trying to maintain a steady tone. "She could not handle it. She found someone else to give her what I could not."

"I-I'm so sorry," Cara whispered.

Maybe it was the alcohol finally kicking in, or maybe it was the intoxicating night air mixed with her perfume, but Chase didn't stop talking. "After four years, I found her with him, and I knew I had been replaced. She did not go after me or try to explain it. She just stayed there, in bed, as if she already had given up on everything we had built. Now she is married, and everyone who knew us gives me nothing but pitiful stares while she lives her new, perfect life."

They stood in silence for a long minute, Cara still staring at him, and Chase began to fidget with his mask, suddenly realizing how much he'd revealed. For an undercover, covert cop, he had become quite the open book.

"Well," Cara finally spoke, her voice low, "My ex-boyfriend, if you could even call him that, tried to kill me. Twice. And even though I know that...there's a part of me that still loves him."

At his stunned expression, she let out a bitter laugh. "I know. I'm probably the dumbest person alive." She blinked quickly, her eyes misty.

"No," Chase said, feeling terrible for broaching the subject. Without thinking, he put his hand on Cara's shoulder. "No, you are not. If only we could hate the ones who hurt us and turn off our emotions, life would be simpler. But love is never that easy, and you are not foolish for allowing yourself to be vulnerable."

He could feel his heart nearly beating out of his chest as he looked into her eyes, doe-like and slightly red. The balcony suddenly felt small, as if it contained only the space between them. As if there was nowhere else to go but closer to her.

Cara gently rested her hand on his arm, breaking her gaze. "I should go. I'm still here for work."

"Right," Chase said, dropping his arm.

"I'm sure they can allow one dance?" It was a bold move on his part, but Chase wasn't ready to back down this time.

She hesitated. "I don't really know how to dance."

"It's never too late to learn," Chase said, with more confidence than he'd felt since the moment he'd arrived here. "Do you trust me?" He asked, offering her his hand.

Chase could see the beginnings of a blush forming on her cheeks. "I- we _just_ met ten minutes ago." Despite this, she took his hand. "But, fine. One dance."

The ballroom didn't seem as stuffy and anxiety-inducing anymore. As they walked back down the stairs, Chase couldn't keep his mind off of Cara. The whole room seemed to melt into the background; never mind the judgemental stares of guests or the blinding yellow of the chandeliers, or even the guards, curiously glancing at him as they descended.

Cara spun around to face him, placing her hand on his arm once more. Her gown twirled with her, revealing her shoes, which interestingly looked to be made out of glass. "I'm trusting you to make sure I don't fall flat on my face," she warned.

"I told you," Chase replied, taking her hand, "Trust me."

As they began to sway slightly to the music, her grip on his shoulder tightened. For a woman for whom conversation seemed to come so easily, it was strange to see her suddenly out of her element. "Relax."

"Sorry," she said sheepishly, stepping away from him. "I haven't danced since I was a child."

Chase stepped back towards her, taking her hand again. "Who taught you to dance?"

"One of my tutors. It was salsa, not really like this. And I was seven, so I'm pretty sure I'm out of practice."

"I would like to believe dancing is like riding a bicycle. It never leaves you - it's all in the soul."

Cara laughed. "I'm pretty sure you'll believe differently after this. Did you learn to dance from your parents?"

Chase grimaced at the childhood memories, annoyed governesses gripping his hands and forcing him to do hours of two-steps and four-steps. "You could say that."

Probably sensing his discomfort, Cara kept speaking. "I'm only asking because you're really good at it. I guess I didn't really expect it for someone in such a serious line of work."

As if on cue, the music abruptly stopped, and Cara stumbled into Chase, the distance between them rapidly closing. She clutched onto his shoulders as he caught her, and their eyes locked. He could feel his heart - or was it hers? - racing, hear her shallow breaths as if they were his own. Everything around them seemed to be drowned out by this moment; all Chase could hear was his pulse, all he could see was her eyes. Like a deer in headlights. They were so big, so close, so _brown_. 

He'd seen them before.

Vaguely, Chase noticed the peripheral commotion around them as the guests began to disperse, loudly complaining about the lack of music. The booming gongs of the clock tower sounded, bringing him back to his senses. Chase stepped back, steadying himself, studying Cara again. She seemed nervous; she avoided his gaze, looking instead at the entrance. There was something...something...

"My line of work," Chase whispered in realization. "I never said anything about it. How did you-"

"Chase," Cara cut him off, pushing him away completely. "I- Some things will happen in the next ten minutes, and I just need you to know that nothing I said was a lie. Tonight. I _swear_ to you that it was all real."

"I don't understand."

"Nothing I said was a lie," She repeated, "Except that my name isn't Cara."

The gongs grew louder. Nine...Ten...

She took off her shoes and her mask. Eleven. "I'm so sorry."

At the twelfth ring, chaos erupted. The ballroom lights cut off and the sprinklers turned on. Panicked party guests, now being drenched, started screaming and running towards the exits. As Chase's eyes re-adjusted to the dark, he found no trace of Cara - Carmen - before him, other than a stray slipper, the other one lost in the crowd.

Chase knew he should be running after her, calling backup, helping the security guards restore order - anything other than just standing in a dark, soaking ballroom staring at a shoe. But he was paralyzed. He bent down slowly, picking up the shoe by its heel. _Evidence_. Chase's mind justified, although Carmen had been smart, wearing gloves to avoid any fingerprints. Of course she'd thought of that.

Her words echoed in his thoughts. _I swear to you that it was all real._

Was it? How could he know if it was, or if it was just a part of the game she played to placate him? After all, it wasn't Cara who'd left him in the dark, running off to commit another crime, but Carmen, an international thief, and fugitive.

Carmen, who had also risked her life to save him two weeks ago.

As Chase exited the ballroom with the shoe in his jacket, people began to gasp and yell. He turned around, following their gazes up to the roof.

There she was - red coat and all. As the guards opened the door to the roof, Carmen slung her backpack over her shoulder and looked back down. At Chase. She reached into her backpack and pulled out the second shoe, holding it over her head.

It was only for a moment, then she shoved it back in and jumped onto another rooftop, making her escape. But it was enough for Chase. As the people around him were escorted away by the remaining guards, Chase remained behind. He took out the left slipper, still slightly dumbstruck.

In the moonlight, he could barely make it out, but there was a paper stuck inside the heel of the shoe, protected from the showers inside. He twisted the heel, popping it off and unscrolling the paper.

_Let's see what's in a name._

_(13) Huapjv Jhmml Nyljv Qbsf zlcluao upul_

A code. Somehow, in the minute that the lights had turned off and Carmen had disappeared, she had left a clue for him. He could wonder how she’d done it, but Chase had long realized underestimating Carmen Sandiego would only make him a fool. Chase looked back up to the roof with a newfound sense of determination. Though the night was over, the game had just begun.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story so pls don't come for me, I haven't written in like 50 years. Sorry if it sucks.
> 
> The code at the end actually does mean something, and it's pretty simple to crack if anyone's up for a challenge.


End file.
